


Better Than Expected

by Sans_Souci



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works, The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: After the Battle of the Five Armies, Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, F/M, Gen, Kink Meme, M/M, Multi, Politics, grey-asexual characters, things get complicated
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-01-22
Updated: 2015-08-15
Packaged: 2018-03-08 14:09:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 17,988
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3212021
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sans_Souci/pseuds/Sans_Souci
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Kink meme fill. Prompt combining. Post-BotFA. Thranduil sees Tauriel and Kíli's relationship as a means to an end. Thorin is ready to bite his own foot off at the temerity of elves--once he is cleared to get back to King-ing of course. In the background, everyone else is placing bets on when Thorin is going to give up on denial and anger as coping mechanisms while Bilbo shows no sign of running back home.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. In which everyone predicts that Thorin will lose his shit

**Author's Note:**

> For this Prompt: http://hobbit-kink.livejournal.com/9471.html?thread=20635903#t20635903
> 
>  
> 
> _So in the movie, Thranduil seems very concerned about the possibility that Legolas is going to express interest in Tauriel, who Thranduil firmly believes is beneath him._
> 
>  
> 
> _Someone exploits the fact that Thranduil is both a loving father and a massive bigot._
> 
>  
> 
> _Alliance with/help for/peace with the dwarves, and in exchange, Kili will marry Tauriel._
> 
>  
> 
> _Thranduil loves the idea. Dwarves and elves are bound by marriage and alliance, and Legolas is safe from what would no doubt have been a terrible mistake._
> 
>  
> 
> _Bonus if years later, Legolas introduces Thranduil to his new lover, Gimli._
> 
>  
> 
> _Double bonus if Kili and Tauriel aren't thrilled at the prospect, even though the are a little bit in love already. Kili seems like the type to want to win a girl on his own merit, and Tauriel would hate feeling trapped._
> 
>  
> 
> And this prompt: http://hobbit-kink.livejournal.com/9471.html?thread=20837119#t20837119
> 
>  
> 
> _So the battle of the five armies happens, everyone survives and in the following celebrations Tauriel and Kili end up getting married. Legolas is rather upset but once he gets over his crush he informs Tauriel he is happy for her although he can't for the life of him figure out why she would want to marry a Dwarf._
> 
>  
> 
> _Time passes and the war of the ring has just ended when Legolas turns up at Tauriel's door with a sheepish expression and his own dwarf fiance asking for a place to stay till his father calms down. Well of course she's not going to turn him away but that doesn't mean she wont mock him endlessly for his comments decades earlier._

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

It had been more than just a few decades since the four eastern clans had marched west armed for war. But dwarves could shift themselves when properly motivated and after a few weeks of quick marching, the war chariots of their leaders approached the gates of Erebor.

Or rather, the sprawling, shambling tent city that stretched from the ruins of Dale to the gate of Erebor.

Forewarned by the ravens of the dwarves’ approach, Dáin of the Iron Hills was not one to waste the opportunity. Riding up to the four generals on his war hog Maisie, he let the battlefield behind him tell the obvious tale. 

On top of it all, the assembled elves, men and dwarves that had been gathering the bodies of the slain had turned to watch their progress.

The air of embarrassment hanging about the newly arrived dwarves thickened palpably.

“Yer kinda late, aren’t ya?” Dáin drawled at last.

The dwarf commanders on their fearsome war chariots looked a quartet of school children called to task before their tutor. Dáin almost thought they were going to shuffle their feet and pull their beards.

But the Blacklock commander in the helmet shaped like a tiger’s gaping maw was made of sterner stuff. “Lord Dáin, we still came--”

“Wouldn’t have anything ta do with that great big pile o’ treasure under yon mountain, would it?”

“We didn’t know the Wyrm was dead when we got the message,” the Stiffbeard representative chipped in, his bread bristling with more than just the clay they traditionally used for adornment. “And yet we came.”

“All the way from the Orocarni too,” Lofar Broadaxe said with a wave of his mailed hand at the Stonefoot troops arrayed behind him. Each commander had brought a hundred soldiers. It was no mean feat to move so many through the mountains of the East.

“In spite of the fact that our numbers are still not recovered from the Battle of Azanulbizar,” the Ironfist general--Buri of Lorn--said reproachfully. Just a decade older than Dáin, Buri was also a veteran of the six year War of Orcs and Dwarves. He was owed some respect, as were the others that had spearheaded this uncertain campaign into the unknown.

“Still on that, are ye?” Dáin asked mildly. Yet he could not blame them, not really. Not when he had been amongst the last group of reinforcements from the Iron Hills to arrive at Azanulbizar. They had been desperate back then--all members of his contingent were under sixty years of age at the time. 

Some of the soldiers in the ranks looked young enough to have been born long after that battle. And for these dwarves, turning back now was a colossal loss of face and a waste of resources. They would not have seen a proper battle at the end of it all, and there was the matter of all that dragon-cursed gold that they were not going to have a share of . . .

“Lord Dáin, I have a suggestion.” The Blacklock general was tenacious. Dáin knew Suthria Haadrial by reputation and the dwarrowdam staring out at him from under that fierce helm did not look like she was going to remain unheard for long. “Our troops will help with the dead and bolster your numbers.”

“Aye, you’ve got an infestation of elves there,” Lofar said, nodding in the direction of the encampment that had sprouted up between the ruins of Dale and foot of the mountain. “And men.”

“They aren’t much threat now . . .” Dáin knew that the men had narrowly missed being roasted alive by the fire drake before fighting for their lives against the orcs and goblins. They were not in any shape to do anything other than patch up their wounded and burn their dead. The elves were a much reduced force, though Dáin suspected that Thranduil might be able to summon some reinforcements if he chose to. But the Elvenking and his subjects seemed to be acting all strange about their dead--like they had never seen lifeless bodies before. Not for them the stony tombs under Erebor, which the dwarves were slowly but surely filling up with their slain warriors. 

To be completely honest, the empty old halls gave most of them the chills and there was talk of getting the craft-masters to purify the place. Hallow and make it clean again--free from the curse of the dead Wyrm and the presumably angry, unrestful dead that had perished by dragon fire. A dwarf’s work was never done.

“You can’t trust them--”

“All right,” Dáin said, interrupting Lofar’s pending rant on the untrustworthiness of the other races. “We do need some help gettin’ all of this sorted before winter. Goblin mercenaries ta hunt down an’ all that.”

And it would be best to have them on their way come spring, Dáin thought. They could make their report back to their leaders then. Too many issues would arise if they overstayed their welcome or demanded too much gold for their services.

“Lord Dáin . . . Permit us one question before we swear our oaths.” Nyr of the Stiffbeards looked at him shrewdly. “Is it _Lord_ Dáin now or . . .”

“You can come right out and say it, Nyr.” Dáin suddenly knew where all this un-dwarfish hesitation came from. “Thorin Oakenshield is wounded but still alive. You’ll be swearin’ a season’s service to the King Under the Mountain.”

Dáin briefly enjoyed the swiftly concealed grimaces that followed his pronouncement. They were no doubt cursing their liege lords and any advisors that had spurred this campaign. “You should remember _him_.”

The same Thorin Oakenshield that had petitioned the seven clans for aid to retake the Lonely Mountain. The same one that had survived the subsequent battle against all odds--though Dáin was generous enough to admit that that elf had a lot to do with it. Thorin, like most of his line, had a long memory for grudges. As their rulers were not present, they were going to be the representatives of their respective clans to the newly enthroned King.

Stuck between the honest to Maker rock and hard place, the four generals swallowed their trepidation and sent their seconds for their scribes. Dáin sent for his own mediators so that he could accept on behalf of his kinsman. Balin was unavailable as he was keeping vigil outside the King’s tent and Dwalin was not one for negotiations.

“Thorin’s going to lose his shit,” Dáin muttered as he thought about the new issues and the present going-ons in the tent right next to the one in which the King Under the Mountains was lying in. “Ah well, better him than me . . .”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Thranduil Oropherion, for possibly the first time in two thousand years, was feeling out of his depth.

His son was obviously angry at him. Said offspring had been watching Tauriel as she moved amongst the wounded, methodically checking on those that had sustained wounds from poisoned orc weapons. Then Legolas had started to help Tauriel, from a distance at first and slowly working his way to her side until he was absorbed into the cadre of survivors tolling to provide some form of medical aid to the wounded.

The Elvenking was also conscious of the eyes of the Silvan elves on him, swinging slowly from their ruler to their prince and the only elf that had been banished from their kingdom in the past five hundred years.

Thranduil knew that Oropher had an impulsive streak that had led to his untimely end. He had spent a lot of his life trying to suppress any trace of it in his doings. Like committing himself to pointless battles. Much like the one he marched out of Mirkwood to commit himself to over that accursed treasure.

He was also increasingly aware that his actions had been influenced in part by greed inspired by the Wyrm’s treasure--not that he would ever admit it. The battle had mostly broken the curse’s insidious hold over the surviving dwarves and men. To judge by the hollow-eyed way they moved across the battlefield to retrieve their dead, the lesson was still ongoing.

There was also the added aggravation of four other dwarf contingents from the Orocarni. Thranduil was keenly aware that his forces were outmatched--not that he was aiming for another confrontation any time soon. He wanted nothing more than to return to Mirkwood, but the dwarves would read it as either abandonment or cowardice. In the state that they were currently in, the men would think the same.

More importantly, Legolas did not appear to want to leave. He and Tauriel had been on their feet for almost three days consecutively. And he was avoiding Thranduil. Finding and talking to his son should not be this hard. 

Events were rushing at an unseemly pace and the Elvenking found himself racing to keep abreast of them. Thorin Oakenshield was mending but still unconscious. His heirs had been rescued from the brink of death and Dáin of the Iron Hills was in charge until the dwarf King was well enough to take over the delicate business of resettling Erebor, dealing with the displaced men of Laketown and the eastern dwarves that had been deprived of a battle but were not going to go away without something to show for it.

Thranduil had not needed to dabble in politics for almost a century, but it did not mean that he was unaware of the opportunities. What he was going to propose was shockingly impulsive--to his own people but probably not to the men and dwarves--and he knew that he was going to have to do most of the legwork himself, distasteful as it was. 

The Elvenking first tried to speak to Legolas as he made his way along the line of tents containing the seriously wounded. “Legolas--”

“I’m going to get more bandages,” his son said, smoothly avoiding him in the way that only an elf could.

Thranduil kept his expression neutral for there were far too many eyes around them and carried on. His next quarry was easier to corner--she stepped out of a tent practically in front of him.

“Tauriel--” he began.

“I believe I was banished--hence, I am no longer your subject,” Tauriel said coolly. Her posture was wary but she was too tired for anger. The lack of honorifics was palpable and the use of Westron was undoubtedly deliberate. It was a much cruder form of speech, certainly.

Thranduil had not been the Elvenking for most of the Third Age for nothing. “You did disobey a direct order. However, I am willing to overlook your impetuousness--you were obviously influenced by your . . . _concern_ for a certain dwarf.”

“I believe that you know which dwarf he is,” Tauriel said bluntly. The rashness of her kind was always close to the surface in this one. “I expect you even know his name.”

And the fact that that dwarf was currently second in line for the throne of Erebor now that Thorin Oakenshield was the King Under the Mountain. All this Thranduil knew and it had turned his thoughts in a different direction entirely.

“I do now. You know that his uncle would object? Strenuously?”

 _“I do not see why you should care what Thorin Oakenshield thinks.”_ She switched to Sindarin and Thranduil knew that she was at least willing to consider what he had to say.

 _“Be as it may, the dwarf king is now our neighbour and I foresee many tedious communications between our kingdoms in the future.”_ Thranduil drew closer. _“You were a foundling, Tauriel--I still have an interest in your future and no not wish to see you isolated from your kin.”_

That might have been laying it on too thick. She did not look as though she believed him. But the light of the elves was fading from this land and being an elf alone now was to be cut off from the songs of their people. Perhaps it was the fear of being separated from her adopted family that steered her thoughts now . . .

_“Then help them. You helped the men before. You can do it again. Help them all.”_

Or perhaps not. But he had been prepared for this.

_“We have been foraging for supplies and herbs to make medicine--”_

_“Our healers want to help.”_ That was the nature of most healers, elves included. They had been looking at the wounded--the dwarves and men--and the urge to help was almost palpable.

Thranduil judged that it was time to make his move. _“Very well then. I will send them to the wounded. Only because you asked, adopted daughter.”_

A number of emotions crossed her face then, but they were quickly hidden as she bowed to him curtly. “Thank you, Lord Thranduil.”

His offer had been accepted. Thranduil inclined his head even as Tauriel excused herself and moved on. Just in time for Legolas to appear again to hear the tail end of their exchange.

 _“What did you do?”_ Legolas asked immediately over a stack of what looked like former sheets that had been cut and boiled for bandages. His son was far more straightforward in his dealings--it was something of his mother’s nature that Thranduil had never had to heart to correct.

_“I merely did as you would have. The healers will see to the wounded. Tauriel has come back to the fold.”_

Legolas was immediately suspicious. _“You wouldn’t help the dwarves earlier--”_

 _“I rather enjoy the thought of Thorin Oakenshield beholden to me now.”_ Which was true.

 _“Your people, you mean--one in particular,”_ Legolas could not help but point out. Knowing Thorin Oakenshield’s current attitude towards elves, he was very certain that the dwarf king was going to lose his shit in a spectacular fashion once he was conscious.

That was, of course, the reason for all this. Legolas would understand someday. It would take a while and Thranduil supposed that he would have to prepare to have a lot of people angry at him for the duration.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Sharp eyes watched this particular exchange from the side of a tent that owed more to the ingenuity of the dwarves than the rather frayed materials it was made of. Balin was not privy to elven politics and had a hard time deciphering their body language, yet even he could see the tension there.

One elf had broken ranks or, as rumour had it, been exiled for breaking ranks to aid dwarves. The fact that she had saved their bacon twice over was uncomfortable for both sides.

“I’m tellin’ ye, Thorin’s not goin’ ta like this,” Dwalin growled from his position at the tent entrance. He had been on a self-imposed sentry duty for days, but his eyes, like his brother’s tracked the progress of the elf as she made her way towards them.

Or rather the tent next to the one they were guarding. Seeing as she had saved the royal line from blood poisoning, Dwalin Fundinson was grateful many times over but he was still not quite reconciled to the fact that she was an elf and a subject of the Elvenking. He was all for the elves turning on that blond snake and yet they had wound up fighting on approximately the same side in that battle. In Dwalin’s book, fighting together meant that they were shield-brothers. He just never thought that he would have cause to fight on the same side as elves. Or men. 

Balin sighed. Things were getting ever so complicated. To think that he had once thought that the dragon was going to be the hardest part. Waiting for Thorin to recover was turning out to be far from straightforward at the rate things were progressing.

“From the look on your faces, you’ve heard about the dwarves from the east.” Bilbo Baggins’s arrival with a tray was entirely expected as it was time to change the bandages. Regular as clockwork, was their Master Baggins.

“I expect Dáin will need their help in chasing down the last of the goblin mercenaries.” Balin nodded at Bilbo while Dwalin stepped aside to let the hobbit through with new bandages and another pot of Oín’s salves. The hobbit was concentrating on his task and did not seem bothered by the new arrivals and the new dimension they added to the three-way tangle on Thorin’s doorstep. The King himself was well out of it after two harrowing days spent fighting off wound fever. Balin privately predicted that Thorin was going to be surprised when he woke up to find Bilbo in his tent instead of halfway on the way back to the Shire.

As Thorin had forgiven Bilbo and the sentiment had been returned, Dwalin was of the view that whatever happened next between them was their own business. Balin always suspected that his brother was a romantic at heart and to see the confirmation of it in the days after the battle was one more thing on top of a mountainous list of momentous things.

“Dáin’s messenger is also on the way--looks like he’s in a hurry to tell you something too,” Bilbo said before entering the tent with his loaded tray. The hobbit had fussed non-stop from the moment that Nori had seen the signs of life in Thorin’s body. Balin had seen that sort of behaviour before in the past--his own people scrambling to do something, _anything_ at all to keep busy in the face of the horror they had faced.

The elf Captain Tauriel had been the same, working ceaselessly amongst the wounded. Óin, with a healer’s pragmatism, had essentially shoved anyone that looked like they were going to object out of the way. “It worked in Laketown, so I’m not goin’ ta object ta elf magic with over three hundred wounded an’ countin’.”

As the old dwarf had looked ready to fight anyone who dared challenge him and was bloody to the elbows from performing surgery, no-one dared to say anything more. Óin was of the Company and that carried no little weight right now.

 _Bilbo_ \--now Bilbo was a lot easier to understand compared to elves. The little fellow had been brave despite not being a warrior. His attempt to help had not been appreciated, though Balin could see that he had been aiming for as little bloodshed as possible. Seeing the ranks of the wounded, most of whom had been laid out in rows waiting for medical attention while shelters were being built over them by the able-bodied, the cruel irony of it all had not been lost on the members of the Company.

Fate made sport of all their plans in the end. The line between friend and foe had been blurred and if the stench of death had not been so thick in the air, Balin might have relished the coming negotiations with men, elves and the eastern dwarves alike. 

“The hobbit’s got good eyes--there’s Dáin’s man now.” The brothers watched the progress of the dwarf through the tents--it looked fairly urgent. 

The messenger puffed to a stop in front of Balin and proffered up a sealed missive before speeding off again. Oh things were definitely heating up now . . .

“The four generals intend to stay and Dáin has allowed them to swear to him, as proxy for the King,” Balin said shortly after scanning the message.

“Can’t see what else he could have done.” Dwalin returned to polishing his axes and sighed. “Y’think you’d miss it--a proper battle, I mean. But in the end . . . it’s like Azanubizar again.”

Balin could see where the comparison came from. The number of dwarves that had not been of age to join the fighting but had gone on regardless had been shockingly high back then. Here and now, even the men had sent out their beardless youths in desperation as the orcs and goblins ran through the ruins of Dale. 

At least the mountain was theirs and they could entomb their fallen warriors with the proper rites. Dale had its own system of crypts and Balin had felt honour-bound to tell Bard where they were. They could not keep using Bilbo as a go-between for prickly matters. Not now and not when they were maintaining a truce simply because everyone was weary of fighting and trying to cope with the dead and the wounded.

Speaking of prickly matters, the one next door--in the next tent--was essentially a shaky mine shaft about to collapse. Balin could only hope that Thorin pulled through to see it--if his king lost his temper when he found out, he was probably on the road to recovery.

“ _That_ ,” Dwalin said as he noticed the direction of his brother’s stare, “Thorin will like even less.”

“I’m fairly certain he will lose his shit,” Balin stated baldly. “But that would also mean that our king is hale and we can hash things out diplomatically. Eventually, I expect.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Unlike the other members of the Company, Nori had been to the Orocarni and the cities of the four clans. And because Nori was Nori, he had left the Red Mountains with at least one dwarf from each city swearing that they would have certain body parts as payment for slights real and imagined.

He certainly hoped that none of those dwarves had come with the four generals--the demand for those body parts did not quite match Nori’s supply. Unless they were prepared to divide certain organs between them. With a dull knife, probably. Nori was not prepared to part with any of his organs and resolved to keep a low profile. Which was going to be difficult now that he was one of the Company. The capital letters had fallen in place very shortly after they had assembled because most dwarves had predicted that they would be the Company that was tragically roasted alive. Now they were the dwarves of Thorin’s Company and legends in their own time.

Fame was a curse to a dwarf that wanted nothing more than a nice chunk of change to put away for retirement. Or the worst thing of all-- _respectability_. Dori would excel at being a respectable rich dwarf and Ori would be a respected and rich scribe. Nori would honestly prefer to chance the Orocarni again if it meant freedom from respectability.

He would definitely not make a suitable lord or civil servant, but Nori wagered that he was still a good enough sneak. Someone was going to have to infiltrate the various camps and keep their ear to the ground now that the orcs had been sorted out and there were new players on the board. Bilbo, a surprisingly promising thief and spy, did not have his head in the game at the moment--not while Thorin was still unconscious. 

_That_ , Nori had seen the signs of early in the journey. What he had missed completely was that red-haired elf Captain of Thranduil’s and Kíli’s regard for her. Nori could not be everywhere at once and he definitely did not know how elves acted when they fancied someone.

This trip was an education, all right, Nori thought as he observed the elf woman ducking into the tent that housed the wounded princes.

“Oh he’s not going to like that.” Nori paused in the middle of sharpening a pair of scissors. He was supposed to be resting, but practically everything was in short supply and his hands were kept busy sharpening the implements needed by the healers and those cutting bandages.

“What’s wrong now?” Ori asked, flopping down next to his brother. It was time for his lunch break, but the younger dwarf was worn out after fetching kindling and carrying newly-made bandages to be boiled before use for most of the morning. “The elves are actually helping with the healing and replenishing the supplies. The four eastern clans came eventually.”

“And what’s happening in that tent right now,” Dori chipped in as he bustled over with a jug of water and bowls of broth for the occupants of said tent. “It’ll turn Thorin’s beard white if he doesn’t tear it out by the roots.”

“I think it’s sweet,” Ori said in defence of dwarves actually in his age group. Their little brother had grown up on the journey and was more prone to speaking his mind now. “Very romantic. But not like the tragedies because neither of them are d--”

“None of that now,” Dori whispered and he actually poured the water right in front of Ori’s feet. It was an old, _old_ superstition to wash away bad luck from ill-chosen words. The battle had done that to some of the older dwarves--that or the creeping evil that had lurked in the mountain had caused them to revert to the old ways. Ori had seen more warding gestures in the past three days than he had in his whole life in the Blue Mountains. “They’re not out of the weeds yet. And I’ve got to go refill this jug again.”

“Thorin’s going to lose his shit,” Nori predicted glumly as he sharpened another blade.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Inside the tent, Fíli did not know how long he could pretend to be asleep. The last draught had worn off and he was beginning to feel each and every one of his hurts. Furthermore, he was increasing aware of the pressing urge to piss.

He risked opening one eye, almost hidden behind the bandages that crossed his brow. Maker forefend, they were still at it.

“I thought you were--you were . . . gone.” The elf Captain that Fíli had formally thought of a cool customer was seated over by the neighbouring cot, being awkward with his brother. Elves, as it turned out, had a very hard time expressing anything.

“I made you a promise,” Kíli whispered from his prone position. Having a broken collarbone, two fractured ribs, another nasty arrow wound in the thigh and stab wounds all over him did not prevent him from holding her hands and staring into her eyes. “We of the Line of Durin keep our promises.”

Refraining from making an inelegant noise at this melodrama, Fíli shut his eyes and wondered if he could roll out of his camp bed and crawl out of the tent without being noticed. He might have a chance, seeing how those two were totally engrossed with each other. Anything was better than staying here and listening to those two getting all soppy over each other. Perhaps Thorin’s tent had some extra space on the floor . . .

“Ah, excuse me,” a voice that Fíli identified as Dori spoke from the tent opening. “I’ve brought you some fresh water. And a very nourishing broth if you can manage it.”

“Thank you, Dori.”

Fíli almost groaned as he heard the sound of water being poured. His next attempt at opening his eyes was met with the sight of Tauriel adroitly positioning the cup so that his brother could drink from it.

Dori excused himself, but it was dubious that Kíli or Tauriel noticed his exit.

“Your king will not be pleased, I think.” Tauriel’s face was grave as she set down the water and took up the broth.

“I bet yours wasn’t too happy about it either,” Kíli said with a glimmer of his old cheekiness. “He actually banished you for following us?”

“My lord Thranduil appears to have rescinded his earlier decree,” the elf said. A small frown had developed on her normally smooth brow. “I fear that this--what we share now--has made him rethink his decision.”

“You could always stay with us if he decides to banish you again,” Kíli offered.

Even Fíli could interpret her raised eyebrows. “I believe your uncle will definitely have something to say about that.”

“Oh he will. There’ll probably be shouting involved,” Kíli admitted philosophically. “But he doesn’t rule the world. You can find your own place--there are other elven colonies, right? That Lord Elrond’s place isn’t too bad--don’t tell anyone I said that . . . Or we could build you a small lodge by the lake perhaps?”

He must have looked hopeful, for Tauriel smiled at him gently. “Your plans are speeding ahead faster than your bones are mending.”

“They _are_ mending--thanks to you. I think even Thorin has to acknowledge that.” 

Fíli had to give his brother props for that one--very smooth. Naturally, Thorin was going to hate it. But he was not, when unaffected by gold sickness, an ungrateful dwarf. Even Bilbo had managed to win his respect--and a bit more than just respect, Fíli suspected. That was an issue his uncle was probably going to ignore in favour of being angry at owing an elf anything and Kíli’s rapidly broadening streak of independence.

When had his brother grown up so quickly? How was it that he managed to fall in love with an elf in the middle of a quest and their first real battle? And Kíli had figured it out faster than _Thorin_. 

On second thought, that was not actually very surprising.

Fíli privately resolved _not_ to place a bet with Nori with regards to when his uncle was going to wake up and realise what was right in front of him. Interesting times lay ahead. And he was going to be stuck right in the middle of his uncle and his brother because Kíli was _serious_ about going off and having a lodge by the lake if Tauriel was not allowed in Erebor. 

Having spent the days after the battle drifting in and out of draught-assisted sleep, Fíli was not completely up to date with the current events. He was, however, completely up to date with what was going on directly in front of him. His stubborn, optimistic brother had made eyes at an elf and against all odds, she had had been rather taken with him.

That first time in Mirkwood with the giant spiders had definitely been a coincidence--the elves had saved them all for their king. But his brother’s crass joke had been charming enough to warrant a conversation and Fíli really did not want to know about the courting rituals of elves if Kíli’s ham-handed approach was considered _suave_. It had been enough for her to follow them all to Laketown because Kíli had been wounded. Saving his life a second time was not due to chance, orc-attack notwithstanding. By the third time, none of the Company could deny that Tauriel had chosen her path when she went head to head with Bolg after Kíli had gone down and then stayed on to heal them.

His brother was probably the only dwarf in the Third Age to be thrice-rescued by an elf and not feel put out by it. In fact, Kíli had been over the moon because Tauriel had felt strongly enough about him to defy the Elvenking. And everyone knew it too.

As Fíli was _really_ fond of his brother and uncle, he was going to have to thank the elf once he could stand upright unaided. Probably just in time to watch his uncle explode.

 _Oh joy_ , Fíli thought before groaning loudly so that Kíli and the elf Captain were warned of his awakening and would cease being awkwardly intimate. He really, _really_ needed the chamber pot. Or the lavatory pit. Did they even have a lavatory pit nearby?

At least he could distract himself from Thorin inevitably losing his shit . . .

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~


	2. In which a lot of things happen before Thorin is even awake

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“Hold ‘im steady! Pilers! I said get the pilers now! The largest one we’ve got!”

The noise of armour being taken apart piece by piece from injuried dwarves was just part of the background noise in the busy field hospice.

Tauriel pushed a stray strand of hair behind her ear, not pausing the motion of her other hand on the pestle as she ground the last handful of Kingsfoil into the mixture of herbs and oil. She thought that she really should have borrowed a scarf or a ribbon to tie back her long hair--even medicine-making became messy after a while. 

At least it was not at all cold here in the medical tent, the largest shelter that had been constructed from the ground up with the surviving canvases from Laketown’s boats and as many tapestries that could be dragged out of Erebor in the frantic hours just after the battle. The dwarves had brought out the rich wall hangings and whatever braziers they could carry with some trepidation and much speed, for they whispered of a curse that the dragon had left in its wake and did not like to linger long in the dark halls.

Tauriel had felt the dark pall that hung over the mountain and privately agreed that a dragon’s influence would take a while to cleanse from the dwarven kingdom. Yet the rich tapestries of the past served them well enough after a good sunning and beating with spear hafts. They kept the wind out of the many tents where the wounded recovered with the aid of their limited supplies.

Behind her, a dwarf was being forcibly extracted from his dented armour, accompanied by Óin’s muttered litany of curses in Khuzdul and grunts from the blacksmith wielding the pliers. A dozen elven healers were stitching or bandaging the wounds of a number of men and dwarves that had been dosed into numbness so they only whimpered every now and then. The wood elves that had sustained injuries bore it all stoically as their limbs were bandaged and bound to splints. Until their own healers had scolded them soundly and distributed anaesthetic draughts to put a stop to all that nonsense. 

Tauriel had been like them once and avoided the eyes of the healers so that they would not suggest that she take a restorative herbal draught and rest. There was too much to do still.

In a screened-off corner of the tent hospice, her elven compatriots were taking turns undoing the damage caused by cursed weapons. By the sound of the low, hurried conversations that took place between patients, they were also swearing at the use of Morgul-blades and poisoned shafts. The thinnest, shallowest cut could bring about a horrific infection. Tauriel was glad for the presence of actual _experienced_ healers--she knew only the bare bones of that art and had trusted more in the magic to do what it should.

Her intent had served them well enough on the first night when the wounded had been brought the healers on stretchers hastily cobbled together from whatever weapons and branches that were on hand. Dragging someone from the brink of death for the second time should have been easier, but Kíli had more than one life-threatening wound this time. The last time she had panicked to that degree was when she had been orphaned and so very young-- 

A polite voice from the vicinity of her abdomen dragged her out of her grim thoughts.

“Hello, Miss? Captain Tauriel?” The hobbit, for he was not a dwarf, got her attention by waving. She mentally berated herself for not noticing his presence--he had obviously been very quiet on his feet and it was easy to miss things in the busy hospice tent. “Bilbo Baggins, at your service.”

“And I am at yours,” Tauriel replied politely. Courtesy deserved courtesy in return.

“No, I really mean it. You’ve been working all this time and you’ve saved some very good friends of mine.”

“I have heard that you have also saved Thorin’s company, Master Baggins.”

“Oh, did Kíli mention it?” Bilbo asked artlessly.

Tauriel absolutely, positively did not repress a smile as she kept grinding. “He _might_ have said something about barrels and escaping via the cellar trapdoor.”

“Ah, sorry about that--it seemed necessary at that time.” Bilbo looked at his feet and back up at her sheepishly. “You didn’t get into any trouble over that, did you?”

It had been mostly her pride that had been wounded that day. She had been privately glad that Kíli had escaped with his people, though what happened after that had worried her. “I got into more trouble for disobeying the king’s direct orders to return.”

Her tongue was freer than it normally was. Perhaps she was getting tired. Or she thought her king was plotting something she probably would not like very much . . .

“I, for one, am glad you came after us,” Bilbo said, gesturing around the tent. There was another red-haired dwarf speaking to Óin--his brother Glóin from what she had gathered--and tugging on his sleeve. “I don’t know much about doing magic, but it must have been tiring on top of everything else, even for elves. How many days has it been since you last slept?”

To that question, she had no rejoinder. Tauriel had not lost count of the days since her last nap some three weeks ago after destroying a spiders’ nest, she merely did not want to say.

The hobbit looked over to where Glóin was now arguing with Óin. Tauriel rather liked the old dwarf--he was cantankerous and free with his tongue, but he followed the healers’ code. 

“There’s someone else too stubborn to rest,” Bilbo said, a wry smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.

“Master Hobbit speaks the truth.” Senior healer Laenien appeared right next to her and promptly took advantage of her diverted attention to snatch the pestle from her hand before Tauriel could protest. “Not so fast now, are you? Go get some rest before you fall over, Captain.”

Tauriel assessed her options and wisely surrendered. Laenien was not an elf to be crossed. “I leave it all in good hands--that mixture’s to stand for another hour before use. Come, Master Óin, we have been expelled.”

“Bossy leaf-eaters,” Óin muttered as they were shown firmly out of the hospice tent. “Present company exempted. Oi, if we’re restin’, then they’re restin’ after six hour shifts! Bossy younger siblings--”

“You sound like me when I was a stripling,” Glóin said without much rancour. “Oh come along, I’ve got a tent set up and maybe the last bit o’ brandy from Laketown waitin’.”

“Brandy, eh? That I can get behind!” Óin demonstrated that he was still no slouch for his age, stamping his staff enthusiastically as he followed his brother through the path formed by twin rows of tents.

“I’ve got no brandy, but I managed to salvage some sheets from an unscorched linen chest in Dale,” Bilbo confided to Tauriel as they trod a path that she was very familiar with. “It’s not half as comfortable as the beds in Rivendell, of course--ah, here we are.”

Tauriel stared at the hobbit as he pulled aside the flap of the tent that Fíli shared with Kíli. All the things she had been trying not to think about were suddenly brought to the forefront of her mind as she beheld the dwarf that had made her question her allegiance to her king.

“We’ve got to double up to save resources--you and I get the floor, of course. Nothing improper,” he assured her.

“Master Baggins, I do believe you have been scheming,” Tauriel observed as she saw a neat hobbit-sized sleeping roll made up on the ground by Fíli’s cot and a much longer one with a blanket right next to Kíli’s. She did not know how to feel about it, for she barely knew the hobbit.

“Call me Bilbo. And if only all my schemes go so well,” he murmured, obviously recalling the catastrophic events of just a few days ago.

Having nothing to say to that, Tauriel felt that she still had to make an effort to object despite the way she automatically turned to watch Kíli’s sleeping countenance. “You know that his uncle will be livid and no few dwarves would rather that my people leave this place immediately?”

“Yes, I know the dwarf you speak of and I don’t care about those other dwarves--they were late to the fight after all. We’ll deal with things as they come, eh?” The hobbit passed her the folded blanket. “As my Dad used to say, where there’s life, there’s hope.”

Wise words, given their current situation.

Some long-dead woman of the ruined city of Dale had kept her linens stored with dried lavender and the ghost of the scent still lingered on the sheets. Tauriel appreciated the niceties as she sat down on the bedroll and suddenly felt very tired. Three weeks on her feet, several major fights and a not so minor attempt at healing were ganging up on her and pressing down on her eyelids. 

“I will go back later. After six hours.”

“Certainly--whatever you like,” Bilbo said, his voice drifting over from the other side of the tent. “Now get some rest.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Sometime before dawn, Fíli woke up with pins and needles in his left arm. Turning over stiffly, he was confronted by the sight of Tauriel asleep on the floor. His night vision, like most of his race, was very good and he could see _everything_. It should not have been very comfortable to sleep with one hand extended upwards, but somehow, Tauriel’s hand was clasped in Kíli’s as they both slumbered on.

Fíli rolled over faster than anyone in his condition should be able to and found one hobbit ensconced on the floor by his bed. “Hey! Bilbo . . .” he whispered.

“Bilbo!” he hissed louder and the hobbit stirred sleepily in his nest of blankets. “Do you know that she’s right there!”

“I know.” The hobbit blinked up at him blearily. “How’d you suppose the nice sheets appeared?”

It took a moment for Fíli to process that. By the look of it, their hobbit was firmly in the “for” Tauriel and Kíli camp. “I mean, is this really necessary?”

“I’m not setting up another tent and I’m their self-appointed chaperon. Now shut up and keep recovering,” Bilbo said with the air of someone that was this close to jumping up and doing something very unhobbit-like unless Fíli let him get back to sleep.

Suitably chastened, Fíli subsided and tried to go back to sleep while being fully aware of the presence of the elf his brother was having feelings for lying not three feet away. This was not a situation he had ever anticipated being in . . .

It was a thought that would occur to him again one morning a week or so later when nature called and he had to answer. Fíli was, as Óin pointed out often, lucky that he was young and able to heal quickly with the natural resilience of their kind. The healer also recommended moving their limbs as soon as they were able to put any weight on them, which was why Fíli and his brother had crutches to help them to and from the jakes once they were allowed out of the tent.

“You know,” Fíli said conversationally to the sheet of patched canvas in front of him, “this is not quite what I imagined for our first private conversation.”

“It is not ideal,” Tauriel agreed from where she was looking over his head at anywhere else but down as she kept him steady with one hand on his shoulder, “but I imagine that you must be dying to say something after pretending to be sleeping all those other times when your brother and I were talking.”

“Um. So you knew all along . . .” Fíli resumed his study of the makeshift screen that shielded the jakes from the rest of the encampment. There had been no-one else available to escort them to the privy that morning once Bilbo had left to check on Thorin’s bandages. “Thank you for not saying anything. And thank you for saving Kíli. And getting us out of Laketown--I didn’t quite get around to saying that earlier.”

“It was a very busy day,” Tauriel said neutrally. “The dragon was also very distracting.”

“Yeeesss, very distracting, that dragon. Since we’re all out of distractions now, thank you for saving our uncle and apologies for any unpleasantness in advance. Because unpleasantness is definitely going to happen when Thorin wakes up. Sorry.”

“Thank you for the warning. And you are very welcome.” Tauriel paused for a moment then and Fíli got the impression that she was waiting for something else. “Are you not going to talk to me about your brother?”

“Kíli--yes, about Kíli,” he sighed, shifting about on the wooden seat. A wintery draft curled around his shins, reminding him that they would have to shelter in the mountain eventually. Hopefully, Erebor did not have marble or stone seats in their privies. “I could say many things, like how you could probably do better, but he’s still my brother--my exasperating little brother who isn’t even eighty yet. So I’m going out on a limb here, me with my breeches around my ankles and dangling over a deep hole in the ground . . . He’s never been in love before, swear it on our mother’s life--be careful with his heart. If you are intent on staying on this path with him, I mean.”

There was a very long silence after that. 

“I have never been in love before--that much we have in common,” Tauriel said at last. “And I’m not quite six hundred years old.”

“Oh.” Fíli did not know what to make of that confession. “Is that--I mean, is six hundred years _young_ for an elf?”

“We’re considered mature enough to make up our own minds by our fifth century--I have a chosen occupation. Most of us don’t consider courting until we’re closer to eighth century though. And that’s only because we’re Silvan elves.”

“So you’ve never thought about it before?” Fíli took advantage of this conversational tangent to stand up carefully and do up his drawstrings.

“Not seriously--some of my kind do not engage in romantic relationships.” A bucket of ashes was emptied behind him. Hygiene and all that--they had to try to keep the camp as clean as possible.

“Not at all?” Fíli was intrigued in spite of himself. 

“Not for thousands of years sometimes.” Tauriel passed him the crutches and pushed aside the canvas door.

Fíli put his weight on the crutches and exited the privy with care. “Some dwarves are like that. Married to their craft or their work. Support their families as much as they can.”

“It is still a life with great meaning.” She let the canvas flap drop and turned her full and somewhat piercing regard on him. “How do you know if you are destined for that sort of path?”

“I have no idea--I guess we’ll know eventually after a while. At least within the first hundred years or so . . .” He knew dwarves that had known since they were three decades old that they would not take a spouse and there were others that were still searching after a century or more. "How do elves tell?" 

"I'm not sure. My foster parents told me that you just . . . _know_." 

"So that was about as helpful as everyone else's advice then?" 

Tauriel very definitely smiled at him then. "It certain looks that way."

They ambled back--she walked and Fíli lurched along carefully on his crutches--to the tents in an almost companionable silence. Then a great big black corvid flew down right in front of Fíli before they reached their destination and asked if he was willing to be _ravensfriend_. Which made Fíli’s recovery a lot stranger than it already was at the time.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The first three days had been back to back funerals. First they entombed the warriors that had fallen. They were his men, his comrades--he owed them no less. Then came the equally grim task of sorting out the desiccated bodies of the dwarves in the higher corridors. They had either died of starvation or choked on the noxious fumes that Smaug had produced. Young and old, they had all fallen.

Even the most hardened veterans had been shaken by the sight. Dáin was no different.

It was enough to make a hardened warrior feel like running back home and hugging their children and spouse very tightly. As home was several hundred miles to the east at the moment, Dáin bore up with the depressing tasks at hand. Which included sorting out and making safe several hundred tonnes of dragon-cursed treasure. He had sent for the wizard, deciding that the first non-dwarf to re-enter Erebor would be the one to solve that particular problem for them. They could not risk anyone else falling under the thrall of the dead Wyrm’s influence. 

The ones selected to work inside the mountain were mostly parents or steady dwarves with very strong family ties. Dáin hoped that their familial bonds and the sight of the poor corpses would be enough to guard against temptation. That and a mandatory strip-search for all that entered the mountain and departed through the checkpoint at the gate. The guards on duty had complained that they had seen more bare flesh than any dwarf should in a lifetime. Setting a good example by stripping down to his skivvies, Dáin had clapped his soldiers on the back and promised shorter shifts once they cleared more people for the job.

After putting his armour back on, Dáin stepped out into the sunlight and took a deep breath. It was odd for a dwarf to prefer the world aboveground, but Erebor had that effect on him. And it was not just him--some other dwarves had complained about _claustrophobia_ , of all things. 

He was enjoying a brisk walk back to the camp when a tall, dour figure intercepted him. Bard looked troubled, but that was hardly surprising considering the number of funerals he had probably overseen in the past few days. The man was also grim by nature, though Balin had said that a personal tragedy had some role in that.

"Good afternoon, Master Dragonslayer, ‘tis a fine day for opening the upper windows to air the place, or so the craft-masters tell me. D'ye need any more surveyors? I reckon some of them came with the Red Mountain dwarves," he offered, watching as the man showed some discomfort at the title but shrugged it off because he had more urgent matters on his mind.

"Thank you, Lord Dáin, that's much appreciated but we haven't got the supplies to rebuild even the minimally damaged buildings," he said. "There is still the matter of this as well--"

Dáin hurriedly bit back an oath when he saw what Bard held in his hand. “Cover that--we’re right out in the open!” he hissed, moving forward to shield the gleam of the Arkenstone. “On second thought, ye better come this way.”

Mystified, Bard rewrapped the gem and followed Dáin to his field tent.

Once inside, Dáin barked orders at his guards to disallow any interruptions for the next hour and closed the tent flap.

“That gave me a right turn there an’ you don’t even _know_ ,” he groaned and took off his helmet. Too disciplined to throw his armour around, he placed it neatly on its stand and settled for slumping in his chair--dwarf-size and salvaged from Dale. He had approved--it showed that his people made things that lasted. “Aaah sit down anywhere y’like, Master Bowman--all perfectly sound chairs here.”

Dáin had also started to amass a collection of chairs because he liked to be prepared for a future in which long negotiations featured prominently. There were even some man-sized ones to go along with the table--neatly adjusted by trimming the legs to the right height. If he absolutely _had_ to sit through some tedious meeting, he would rather be comfortable than not.

Bard lowered himself gingerly into one such chair and looked pleasantly surprised that it held his weight.

“Good craftsmanship lasts.” Dáin leaned forwards and tapped the table. “All right, y’can bring that stone out now.”

“Is there something wrong with it?” the man asked, looking worriedly at the Arkenstone. “I thought that we could conclude the trade now that the dead are buried.”

The trade that they had brokered with _Thorin_ , not Dáin. The Lord of the Iron Hills had some idea of what Thorin’s eventual reaction would be once he awoke.

“Not exactly . . . There are many things you don’t understand, but it ain’t precisely yer fault,” Dáin said. Dale’s culture had all but died in a blast of dragon fire--whatever knowledge Girion’s generation had had been lost to the ages. “So I’ll explain it ta you just this once.

“This jewel is the most precious heirloom of my family--Thráin the First found it under yon mountain and you might say that it’s become the birth-right of the true King of Durin’s Folk. That’s us, by the way--the Longbeards.” Dáin stroked his beard for emphasis. “Since my cousin Thorin is rightfully the King Under the Mountain, I’m not goin’ ta be seen takin’ the Arkenstone from you.”

“I doubt Thorin will be pleased to receive it from me,” Bard pointed out. 

“Aye, but I’ll not lay a hand on that stone. You can hand it to Thorin when he rouses,” Dáin said firmly. “One king to another, mind.”

“I’m no king!” Bard protested.

“Aye, an’ you look like you haven’ta copper coin to yer name, but yer of his line--Girion of Dale.”

 _Dragonslayer_ had not produced this degree of bristling in the man. “That title isn’t much use now. Even then, it’s just a small town.”

“An’ that blond popinjay is the King of Mirkwood. Titles _matter_ right now,” Dáin told him. “This is free advice, y’ken? If you want yer share o’ that treasure, you’ll hafta do it as King Bard.”

“Why are you telling me this then? I thought you don’t want any of that treasure in human hands.”

“Good--yer suspicious. But y’also need ta know that that kind of greed is not . . . normal.” Dáin waved a hand at the map pinned to a stand. “Before that great big scaly windbag butchered both our peoples, Dale and Erebor actually hadda mutually beneficial economy. There’re no dwarves workin’ the forges an’ there’re no men runnin’ the markets now. But what I _have_ got now are four hundred able-bodied dwarves--each with their own skills--an’ you lot cluttering up the doorstep. So what else can I do but advise ye ta get some money an’ hire those dwarves to keep them busy?”

Enlightenment dawned in Bard’s eyes. “And so Erebor regains some semblance of its former . . . mutually beneficial economy?”

“Exactly. Then ye can charge that blond ponce a two hundred percent mark-up on that wine he fancies once the river trade gets up an’ running again.”

“Lord Dáin, you appear to have a better idea of the lay of the land than I do,” Bard said. There was grudging respect in his tone now.

“Some may have mistaken me for a dwarf that only knows which end of a mace to swing.” Dáin smiled slightly behind his beard. He had a team of scribes and researchers to compile concise notes for him. But that was a lesson he was not going to give away for free. This man needed to learn how to be a king the same way everyone else did. Dáin knew from experience that the learning curve was nothing but steep.

“I won’t ever make that mistake, Lord Dáin.” Bard looked at the Arkenstone again. “But I still do not have the money to start hiring craftsmen to ready the buildings for winter. For that, I would wish that Thorin Oakenshield’s recovery is a speedy one.”

“Yes, about that . . . I once put out a bounty on that dragon,” Dáin said reflectively. Bard had little love for his cousin and probably blamed Thorin for Smaug’s destruction of Laketown. In all fairness, Thorin would have felt the same if their positions had been reversed. “So far, no-one appears ta have claimed it.”

Bard looked long and hard at him. “I had no idea that such a bounty existed.”

“Weeeell then,” Dáin drawled. “Now y’know.”

“And the size of this bounty?”

Dáin told him. The exact amount--in gold--that he had decreed all those years ago when his cousin had demanded that something be done about the murderous reptile that had slaughtered so many of their kin. Now that he had seen the bones . . . they really should have doubled the bounty.

“Between you an’ me, in the privacy of this here tent, I’m going to shake yer hand, Master Dragonslayer.” Dáin reached across the table and suited his action to his words, which was fairly easy because Bard was staring at him in shock. “Don’t say that titles are useless--bah, I’m giving away too much advice for free!”

“I won’t tell anyone about that that if you intend to honour your word and allow me to claim that bounty.” The man recovered quickly enough, which was good because he would need all his wits about him now that he would actually have hard currency to offer the dwarves from the Orocarni.

“We’ll see, aye? I’ll get a lawyer and witnesses--you always need witnesses.” Dáin bellowed for his runner and hoped that this would all be worth it in the end. Bard would remember this and perhaps in the future, there would be more mutually beneficial arrangements for the Iron Hills and the realm of men.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

"Da!"

Tilda's voice was more excited than afraid. Bard relaxed his stance and turned to see his youngest running up to him with two handfuls of slightly wizened turnips. "There're some more in the ground--the elves said that there used to be orchards and gardens here!"

The elves could range further and could find more food than the bands of men. Their unworldly grace made Bard feel like a clumsy unfinished being half the time and filled him with no small amount of envy when he was not worrying about the immediate future.

After seeing to the burials of people who had once been his neighbours, Bard was glad of a chance to take the children away from the ruins of Dale. They were still dragging away the carcasses of orcs, trolls and goblins in addition to seeing to their wounded--grim work all the way. He had the survivors organise shifts so that everyone could have a respite from staring at dead bodies.

It was easier than expected, for people seemed to want to listen to what he had to say, against all common sense. He had dragged them into a conflict they were not prepared for after all. If Bard had been one of them, he would have questioned his own fitness to lead. Firing an arrow and being descended from a lord were not particularly good qualifications for leading people to face the winter that was creeping up upon them.

But Gil, the nominal head of the fishermen's guild, and Farrah, unofficial representative of most of the women, had come to him and told him on no uncertain terms that they were behind him. They actually put it to a vote on the third evening after the battle and the results were unanimous--Bard was still their leader.

And so Bard had to negotiate with the dwarves for gold and elves for food in addition to the long-term goal of rebuilding Dale so that his people would have a home again. All while a gem worth a king's ransom sat twinkling and burning the proverbial hole in his pocket. A cynical part of him know that they were glad that someone was taking charge--in the absence of the Master, people had looked to him because his aim had not wavered. 

Bard honestly did not know if he preferred facing the dragon to navigating the suddenly treacherous waters between the dwarves and elves. Watching his children and some of the other youngsters ranging about the lower slopes in search of herbs and edible plants reminded him of his more immediate aims. There had been orchards and fields here once--perhaps there could be once again. Of course, they would need seedlings and someone that knew how to farm.

They would have the means to do so now. _If_ Bard could navigate his way through what was to come. Events had moved inordinately fast after Dáin had spoken to him about taking the stone to Thorin’s closest councillors. They told him that there would be contracts to be written and the payments would be spaced out after they got that mountain full of treasure cleaned up.

Bard anticipated an unpleasant round of haggling in a few days’ time and was glad to be out with his bow despite the slim pickings. The younger children looked like they were more intent on running around playing in the grass than foraging, but he did not have the heart to reprimand them now.

Until he sighted a large shape moving along the edge of the forest and heard Bain’s startled yelp. 

“Get back!” Bard yelled. His bow came up just as the shadowy silhouette reared up on its hind legs and resolved itself into the tall, hulking skinchanger known as Beorn.

“Do not shoot, Master Bowman, that might aggravate him,” cautioned a low, musical voice at his side. Bard released the breath he had been holding and looked sideways at the elven ranger that had appeared without any warning. The elf looked unperturbed by the skinchanger’s arrival--but then the elves tended to look uniformly serene at all times, so Bard could not tell if this one was alarmed by the situation or not.

“I have no wish to do that,” Bard said, carefully lowering his bow. Beorn lumbered out of the shadows of the trees, stretching and scratching at himself. He was also unabashedly naked.

Sigrid had the presence of mind to cover Tilda’s eyes, but Bard was certain that his eldest had taken a quick look before turning her eyes resolutely upwards. He was reminded that he had not quite talked to his children about certain facts of life and resolved to have Farrah speak to Sigrid about it one day. One day _soon_.

“You’re naked,” Bard managed to say as the skinchanger came closer. The elf ranger appeared to be quietly amused.

“Yes.” Beorn appeared unconcerned about this fact.

“I have daughters,” Bard spluttered.

“Congratulations?” Beorn sounded slightly puzzled now.

“Good Master Beorn, Lord Bard is only concerned that you may catch a chill,” the elf injected smoothly. “I believe that pair of trousers hanging on that branch is yours?”

As it turned out, Beorn was just about to retrieve his clothing after a healthy morning constitutional consisting of chasing the last few orcs through the forest. Bard prudently did not ask what the skinchanger had done with the orcs, but suspected that a few tree branches in the woods might be decorated with skulls come spring.

“Honey, I can find for you,” Beorn rumbled when they explained that they were foraging and he had glanced over their meagre findings. “But I will not hunt or fish.”

“Of course not, Master Beorn.” The elf ranger, one Athelion by name, managed to convey enough respect and politeness to mollify the skinchanger. “You have done much already by patrolling the forests.”

“I like the forest. Man over there. One of yours?” Beorn asked casually and jerked his chin at the treeline.

Everyone turned to look that way instinctively. Stumbling out of the forest fringe was a sad and forlorn figure, his once-rich clothes in tatters and probably a stone lighter after his ordeal. A shadow of his former haughtiness, the shambling personage reached out imploringly and croaked, “Oh help! Help me, Bard! I-I think I’m dying!”

Like the most unwelcome answer to Bard’s prayers, the Master of Laketown had survived the dragon and found his way to his former people. 

He was probably not dying, Bard thought uncharitably as he ran ahead to help. But at least they could get some use out of him now in the negotiations with the dwarves.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Waking up to find that he was not quite due to go to the Halls of his Maker had been a pleasant surprise despite his injuries.

A fractured collarbone and multiple stab wounds were still better than explaining to his mother why he had gone off and got himself killed by orcs at a later date. Kíli shuddered to think about _that_ conversation. Mahal himself would not stay her wrath. Their Maker would probably mumble something about having something to build and leave him to his mother.

He would do it all again though, for Tauriel was nursing him back to health. Bilbo was helping, but it was mostly Tauriel these days as Thorin was still not well enough to rouse. Kíli was very willing to be nursed back to health by the light of his life.

She always demurred or shook her head when he called her that, but he could tell that she was pleased. Fíli always pretended to gag when Tauriel left after such displays, but his brother was not strongly against his relationship. Not that he could object too strenuously, for Tauriel had saved his life as well and Fíli was very aware of the debt they owed her.

That was probably a good thing. Get the next in line for the throne to support them--it would be one more step to wearing Thorin down. _If_ and _when_ their uncle healed form his injuries. Their mother was probably organising the journey to Erebor right this instance and Kíli really, _sincerely_ did not want to have that other conversation about losing their uncle shortly after reclaiming their ancestral mountain.

It had been an exciting time despite the worry they all felt for Thorin. The ravens had returned and homed in on those they would call _ravensfriend_. Only selected dwarves would be able to understand their secret speech. They were obviously clever birds, for they had selected Balin, Fíli, Dwalin, Nori, Óin and Bifur from amongst the company. One raven had taken to hanging about outside Thorin's tent and everyone knew that it was waiting for the King to wake. Strategically speaking, the ravens had chosen well. But what was truly surprising was the raven that had come to Kíli. And Tauriel. 

There was no mistaking it, not when the raven had spoken to them both in the speech of birds when Tauriel had been sitting outside with Kíli one evening. They had been watching the sunset after his daily walk around the camp. The companionable silence had been broken by wing beats and the arrival of the raven. Kíli’s surprise when Tauriel showed every indication of understanding the speech of the birds was brief. It made perfect sense to him in retrospect.

"It means that you'll always have a place under the mountain," he said as they fed Guli small balls made with a mixture of crushed biscuits and fat. They had walked around the camp as part of his daily exercise and were sitting on an outcropping with a view of the River Running. “And Guli obviously knows you’re smart enough to understand him.”

“I wonder if your uncle will feel as the ravens do.” Tauriel did not sound optimistic as she watched the raven gobble his food. Guli was fairly charming as far as ravens went and she showed every sign of liking him and appreciating the honour.

“He can see reason.” Kíli paused for a moment before continuing on a more cautious note. “Our uncle shook off the gold-sickness in the end. He will hear us out . . . Probably.

“Or perhaps he might just agree to piss off your king,” Kíli quipped, trying to make a joke.

“That would mean that his grudge against my king is stronger than his aversion to my kind,” Tauriel said seriously. But the corners of her mouth were lifting as she tried not to smile at his inappropriate humour.

“That’s entirely possible and you know it.” He threw the last greasy morsel to Guli and chuckled as the raven caught it neatly in midair. “Perhaps his raven might talk him into it.”

“King,” Guli said after swallowing his food. “Thorin-king. With mother.”

“With mother?” Kíli asked. Guli was a relatively young raven and was still learning the common speech. He was practicing Westron with Kíli and Tauriel instead of using the speech of his own kind at the moment.

“I think Guli is saying that the raven waiting for your uncle is _his_ mother,” Tauriel suggested.

“Yes,” Guli said. The raven’s voice was a curious mixture of low rasping tones and high fluting notes. “Ravens’ mother.”

“What--all your mothers?” Kíli’s brow wrinkled gently as he tried to understand.

“A raven queen perhaps?” Tauriel looked back at the camp. “A queen for a king.”

“Like that,” Guli agreed. As the raven had only started learning common speech last week, the fact that Guli could understand them easily was promising. He would be fluent in Westron by the time they moved into the mountain.

That brought Kíli’s thoughts back to the matter at hand. Winter was a deadline they all had to meet eventually. “Tauriel . . . will you--would you consider staying? With me?”

“With _us_ ,” Guli added gently as the warrior looked down at where her hands twisted in her lap restlessly.

“I do not know,” Tauriel said at last. “My lord Thranduil has my fealty. I know not what he intends.”

“That’s all of us then.” The Elvenking’s motives were inscrutable to the dwarves. His continued presence in the Elven compound just outside the dwarrow encampment was mysterious and aggravating at the same time. The elven healers were the reason why the casualties were not as high as they could have been, but their lord had led his warriors to the mountain prepared for war. Dwarves did not forget such an offense easily. The sooner he left, the better. But he might take Tauriel with him.

Kíli had to try though. “Could you stay if he returns to his woods? _Will_ you stay?”

“I . . . I _want_ to,” Tauriel said. She looked up and Kíli could see the trepidation was she experiencing. “I want to try, but I am uncertain where this might lead.”

“An honourable union between our families, I would hope.” The words sounded clumsy in his mouth, for they were not the words of a young and callow dwarf that had left his mother seeking an adventure. He was older now and he had an idea of what he wanted for a future he almost did not live to see. Almost dying had definitely put things into perspective.

“My family is gone--I am a foundling,” Tauriel reminded him. “I have my foster parents, my liege Thranduil and my friend Legolas.”

“I bet I’ll wind up liking your foster parents better than those two.” Kíli stretched, mindful of his injuries. And because he was still rash and there was no-one else within earshot, he did a reckless thing. “Do I have to ask them for permission to marry you?”

“No, these matters are for us to decide for ourselves.” Tauriel looked slightly flustered, which meant she was actually very flustered. Elves did not seem to show many extremes of emotion. “Are you proposing?”

“Well, yes,” Kíli admitted. “I know I’m young for a dwarf and you probably have to ask my mother and my uncle for permission . . .”

“I can imagine how _that_ will go,” she sighed. “Assuming my lord Thranduil releases me from service, your mother and uncle will not allow you to wed me.”

“We could . . . elope?” It was a terrible thing to say and Kíli regretted it immediately. Abandoning his brother and his uncle to the task of repopulating Erebor was one thing, breaking his mother’s heart was another.

Fortunately, Tauriel knew the seriousness of such a matter. “You are a prince, an actual prince now. You have a duty to your people.”

“Yeah, I wasn’t thinking straight,” he said sheepishly. “Can’t leave Fíli on his own to run a kingdom. And my mother will hunt us down, I know that for certain.”

Guli croaked at them, shaking his head at them in what Kíli thought was a rather judgemental fashion. “Complicated. Too complicated,” the bird rasped.

“You’ll miss Tauriel too if she goes and no-one can be bothered to scratch you on the head like she does,” Kíli grumbled. He was mollified by Tauriel’s hand reaching over to grasp his and he turned almost instinctively to find her bending towards him.

That kiss was their first. In all the weeks after the battle, they had held hands and sat close to one another under the puzzled eyes of elves and dwarves alike. But they had never kissed. 

Until now. Until today. And Kíli knew that he did not want her to leave as her scent poured over him and her lips met his. Guli politely left them alone at this point, not that either of them noticed the raven’s departure.

It was too brief. He thought he could see the sparks behind his eyelids. It was just a kiss, warm and lingering like sunlight on his skin.

“Uh,” Kíli said intelligently after they parted. “Um . . . That was, I--”

She placed two fingers on his lips and he stilled. “Was that . . .?”

“Yes . . . I think it was.” Because getting kissed on the forehead by his mother did not count--it _obviously_ did not count. “Was it your . . .”

“Yes.”

As it turned out, she was blushing slightly as well. Her ear-tips had turned pinkish and Kíli found it just too adorable for words.

“What, you’ve never kissed anyone before this?” He had been silly to be jealous of Legolas. Quite ridiculous, really.

“Elves--I mean _we_ don’t love easily. I’ve already had this conversation with your brother--”

“Fíli? He talked to you about me--about us?” Kíli’s incredulity was warring with an upsurge of optimism. His brother actually bothered to talk to her about him! Which meant that Fíli might actually support them. As far as he could right now, naturally.

“Yes . . . I think we came to an understanding of sorts.” Tauriel took his hands into her own. “You don’t mind?”

“No, not really, he’s always looking out for me.” Kíli had known that for all of his life, but the quest had really brought out the protective old brother in Fíli. And now Fíli had felt the need to speak to his prospective . . . lover? Dare he even say _potential wife_? “I’m not doing him any favours right now.”

“Why is that?”

“He’s the heir, as you know, and I’m second in line after him,” Kíli began. “So if I just _happen_ to disqualify myself from the line of succession, he’s going to be under pressure to continue the royal line all on his own.”

Tauriel’s eyes widened in understanding. “And he doesn’t even know if he’s . . . You mean he might have to marry someone he doesn’t love to fulfil his duty.”

“Arranged marriages aren’t that bad for dwarves.” Kíli knew that that did not sound very good at all, but he soldiered on. “It’d be great if he could find someone he loved to marry. But Fíli sort of knew he might have to get hitched for good of our clan someday.”

“Do you have to get married for duty as well?” She looked worried for him now. Kíli wished that their situation was not so stressful.

“I never really thought about it. I’m sort of the spare,” Kíli admitted. “My uncle isn’t as hard on me as he is on Fíli about being responsible. This . . . isn’t very responsible of me.”

“Of us, you mean.”

“No, I spoke to you first. I started this,” he protested. “When I called you _A'maelamin_ \--”

“Understand this, Kíli, _if_ and _when_ I propose to you, we would be married in the eyes of my people. That is the way of the elves,” Tauriel said, her fingers tightening around his hands with a strength that was almost dwarf-like. “And I would follow you wherever you go.”

He could live with that for now. Yes, he definitely could, Kíli thought as he tilted his head up to receive another kiss. They could practice kissing while they figured out what to do.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~


	3. In which Thorin wakes up and does not actually lose his shit but not for the want of trying

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The campfires beckoned, promising warmth against the night-time chill. Dwarves huddled closer and passed around flasks of strong spirits brought from home. Whatever divisions of class or status present amongst the four eastern clans had broken down after days of chasing after goblin mercenaries and nights spent shivering and complaining about the northern weather. The Stonefoot troops kept saying that this was nothing compared to a real winter like they had in the far north, usually before someone threw the first tankard or boot at the speaker. Swapping assorted strong liquors probably helped to lubricate the way.

By day, the race to collect heads was quite competitive amongst the four clans. Bragging rights were thin on the ground after all four regiments had missed the main battle and the warriors were eager to prove their mettle. The goblins had no organisation after Azog’s death and many of the orcs had been enslaved for most of their lives--the survivors of the battle did not stand a chance, really. But a hungry goblin or orc would take the chance if they could sink their teeth into living flesh.

Nori knew that the Lady Suthria’s Ironjaws were leading with thirty heads to the twenty-eight collected by Lord Nyr’s Night Raiders. Nori also knew that the elves were not participating in this particular competition but had an impressive collection of orc and goblin heads decorating the edge of the forest. Some of them might have been Beorn’s contribution to the clearing of the mountain, but no-one was counting because no-one in their right minds would challenge the skinchanger.

It was a fragile peace and Dáin had made it abundantly clear that there would be _consequences_ for any dwarf that disrupted it. The elves and men had their own orders from their leaders, no doubt. 

However, it was Nori’s personal opinion that rules were meant for breaking. For a good cause, naturally.

Nori mentally steeled himself, wrapped an air of nonchalance about him like a second skin and strode into the firelight of one particular gathering.

A few minutes later, Nori wondered if he had miscalculated his approach. It was difficult to jettison a plan when he was busy avoiding the heavy mailed fists--and boots--of an angry dwarf. As it turned out, someone did known Nori. The dwarf--Nori could not quite remember his name but could recognise from the braids in his beard--had taken the theft of his family’s heirloom cruet set rather personally. 

It had been a solid gold and silver cruet set, made some time during the middle of the Second Age, so Nori could understand his feelings somewhat even as the dwarf vented said feelings in an extremely violent manner.

It was not an ideal situation to be in. Nori had been in worse, but he could not knife his opponent in front of all his friends and expect to get away with his skin intact. Not to mention how his clever plan would fall to--

There was a wild bellowing roar that actually caused the dwarf trying to hit him to stop in shock. Dwalin and Dori--Maker’s blessed bollocks--waded right into the fray. They shoved aside every dwarf that showed any indication of joining in and cleared a space around them efficiently.

"It's peace-time," Dwalin growled, giving the surrounding dwarves the best of his gimlet stares. Better warriors had backed down before its force before. "Whatever yer business with him, you settle it _legally_." 

Nori really wanted nothing to do with lawyers--their fees were exorbitant and they would suck you dry if given a chance. Even if he did, technically, have one-fourteenth of Erebor’s wealth by right of reclamation.

"As his older brother, I will demand satisfaction from anyone who even tries to damage my kin," Dori added with a sniff. His fussy mannerisms did not hide the fact that he was wearing armour and was armed with his favourite weapon--a nasty flail that allowed for both range and a maximum amount of pain to anyone on the receiving end. "With interest, too."

Nori wanted the earth to swallow him up at that point in time. Being bailed out by one of the other members of the Company was one thing, but being saved by his older brother was a whole other kettle of fish. One that would nag at him for all his remaining days.

The other dwarves backed off, for Dwalin and Dori standing still were actually menacing in the quiet way that really good fighters were.

“No harm done, all’s well,” Nori said, lying through his teeth. “Just a minor misunderstanding, is all.”

Dori shook his head, because he knew that Nori was probably lying, but he left with Dwalin after they had glowered their fill.

"Big brothers, eh?" The dwarf--what was his name? Felfin? Zolfin?--looked sympathetic. Nori sensed an opening.

"Yeah, older brothers, mate--can't leave ‘em, can't live with ‘em," Nori replied with the exasperation that only younger siblings could muster.

Nori dropped by the tent that his brothers shared an hour or so later for tea and very little sympathy from Dori.

His older brother looked up from the kettle when he pushed the tent flap open. “Well, look what the cat dragged in--”

“Oh don’t fuss,” Nori complained as he looked around for something to eat or drink. “I’m working--”

“Sneaking around,” Dori said, arms folded and adamantly not handing out any tucker.

Lowering himself gingerly onto the ground by the fire-pit, Nori looked hopefully at the kettle. “Someone needs to keep an eye on that lot. Besides, Balin has me on retainer.”

“He has, has he now? With what money?” Dori, for all his fussiness, was a dwarrow merchant to the core and people forgot that at their peril. He handed over a tin cup of well-brewed tea and what looked like the last bit of the _cram_. Nori could easily live another decade without looking at the stuff.

Blowing at the surface of the hot liquid to cool it, Nori raised his eyebrows over his hard-won tea. “That mountainous pile of gold we just fought for?”

“Money in my hand is real. Money in a mountain we’re not allowed into yet is not real,” Dori said adamantly. “Did he make you sign a contract?”

“Well, it was a bit of a rush--”

“We’re not doing some spit-and-handshake deal. Not here and now,” Dori lectured him. “This isn’t some job you’re doing for some small-time robbery ring--”

“Not that we didn’t just burgle a mountain--”

“That’s not burglary--that’s retrieval.” Dori sniffed in affront.

“Call it what you want, but I’m employed. Legally employed.”

“With enough wiggle room for them to disavow any knowledge of you if you get caught,” Dori warned him.

“That’s the game, innit? ‘Sides, most of the Company trusts me.” Basic honesty made him add, “Sort of.”

“It’s your neck after all.” Dori huffed a little more and stared at his uneaten _cram_. “Aren’t you going to finish that?”

Nori groaned inwardly and rammed the hard biscuit into his tea in the hope that it would soften.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

When Thorin Oakenshield fought his way out of the patchy darkness of a fever dream, he thought he had regressed to his youth. He thought--he dreamed that he was still in Erebor. Still in those beautifully crafted halls of mountain stone . . .

Someone was placing cool damp towels on his forehead and lifting cups of water to his dry lips. Thorin was grateful, even in his delirium. He was parched and that was all he remembered for a time. An unknown amount of time later--he knew not how long he had drifted--someone was spooning broth into his mouth.

It reminded him of the time he had wound fever after the Battle of Azanulbizar. His family had nursed him with their own hands--

Family. _His_ family. The battle--

Thorin thrashed awake, struggling out of the grip of the sedative potions with a hoarse gasp. He had a moment of confusion when he beheld the distinctive woven tapestries of Erebor above him as he opened his eyes. Was he dreaming still?

The rest of the tent swam into view, somewhat blurry around the edges as he gasped for breath. “--Fíli! Kíli!” 

His sister-sons. His sister was going to kill him if he did not destroy himself with grief. They were--

“--in the next tent, complaining about not being allowed to get up.” Bilbo Baggins’ curly-haired head was the next thing Thorin saw, rising up from the side of the cot he lay on with a tin cup in hand. “You’re up just in time for lunch. It’s soup--well, it wouldn’t be considered _soup_ in the Shire. More like a consommé with . . . bits in it.”

Thorin stared at the hobbit as though he was a two-headed fish. “Fíli? Kíli?”

“Alive. Very much so, from the noise they made about thin soup and bread. I brought them their lunch just five minutes ago,” Bilbo told him firmly. A concerned look crossed his face as he surveyed the injured dwarf. “Thorin, please don’t make any sudden moves--you’ve been sewn up in more places than I’d like to say.”

“They’re alive,” Thorin said numbly. Bilbo’s presence made it real. The hobbit was still dressed in the overly-large clothes from Laketown. Then Thorin looked down at himself and saw that he was practically swaddled in bandages. “I’m--”

“--On the mend. It was a near thing. Tauriel had to use three different kinds of compresses to draw the orc poison out of you. Now will you have lunch?” Bilbo was brandishing a spoon under his nose and Thorin suddenly felt exhausted. Mainly with relief. His sister-sons were alive. Bilbo was also alive and in a bossy mood so they must have won in the end. It made sense at the moment. 

Whatever else Bilbo had said to him could wait. He was alive and so were his sister-sons. The cup of soup suddenly smelt _wonderful_.

Thorin would have reached for the cup himself except he could barely lift his arm without feeling the pull of the stitches on what felt like most of his torso. He conceded defeat and allowed Bilbo arrange a cushion that had seen better days behind him so that he could sit up. His stomach told him that he was _famished_ and even the thin broth with small pieces of meat and vegetables in it tasted like ambrosia as Bilbo spooned it into his mouth.

“This is it for now, but there’ll be more in a while,” Bilbo reassured him as he looked plaintively at the empty cup. “Óin said you’d be sick if you ate too much after waking up.”

“They’re all alive then?” Bilbo would know who _they_ were. The handful of dwarves that had followed him on this seemingly impossible quest and got in way over their heads after he had botched everything up royally.

“All present and accounted for. You were the most badly injured in the end. _Typical_ , I say.” Bilbo turned away and busied himself with a water jug. “Gave me a right turn when you said all that before passing out. I thought you--” Thorin saw his shoulders tighten with some unspoken emotion before the hobbit turned around again with a cup of water. “Scared us all silly. Balin was planning your funeral when Nori saw your chest move and realised that you were still breathing.”

“I am sorry,” Thorin said, feeling inadequate. His most loyal comrades had almost perished because he had lost himself to greed. Bilbo had sounded . . . _worried_ for a moment there. More worried than he should be, really. Thorin had not been a particularly good friend in the last days towards the end.

“Yes, well, you should be,” Bilbo said with an indignant sniff. “Dwalin’s worn a trench around the tent after pacing outside it for half a month.”

“Half a month?” Thorin looked up sharply. He had lost half a whole month. “Dáin is still in command?”

“He has things well in hand. Four contingents from the eastern dwarf clans showed up after the Battle,” Balin announced as he entered the tent. “Dáin swore them into service for a season so that they can help tidy this mess up.” 

“Good for him,” Thorin said and realised with some surprise that he really meant it. Dáin had always been a better leader.

Balin bowed deeply. “I must admit, I almost gave you up for dead, my king.”

“Just because you’re recovering doesn’t mean I won’t kick the shit out of you in weapons practice when you’re on your feet again,” Dwalin growled. Everyone in the tent took this to mean that Dwalin was hugely relieved and was expressing his fondness for his old friend in the only way he knew how. 

“I’ll try not to disappoint.” Thorin gave up all attempt at being dignified and slumped back onto his field cot. He could feel every bruise and ache at the moment.

“You’ll need yer strength,” Dwalin continued, despite Balin and Bilbo’s frantic gestures in both Iglishmêk and hobbit-style hand-wringing to stop. “There’s elves an’ men with the eastern clans outside.”

“They’re still there?”

Balin’s sigh was just slightly louder than Bilbo’s as Thorin struggled back up again and demanded to know what in the Maker’s sacred name was going on.

Dwalin was never one to stint when it came to listing out a grim list of everything that was wrong--up to an including problems he foresaw with the Red Mountain dwarves, elves and men on their doorstep. Bilbo could not stop him when he really got going and wound up hiding his face behind his hands while Balin tried his best to break his flow.

“--and your sister-son, why I never thought I’d see tha’ day,” Dwalin sighed. 

Thorin was startled out of his brooding. “What? Fíli?”

“Nah, Kíli--” Dwalin brushed aside his brother’s warning hand. 

“What?” Thorin felt his eyes water as he started to cough. His stitches made their presence known very suddenly and he was unable to bend forward.

There was a frantic scramble to find some way of alleviating his cough without thumping him on the back and after a tense interval, Bilbo was able to give him some water.

“You were saying?” Thorin rasped after taking a few shallow sips. The grim look on Dwalin’s face intensified.

“He’s carryin’ on with an elf!”

“Not exactly _carrying on_ ,” Balin interjected as Thorin felt his blood pressure spike.

“It’s rather sweet, I think,” Bilbo said. He did shrink back a little when Thorin and Dwalin glared at him, but soldiered on bravely. “You know, it’s usually the prince that saves the distressed lady in the tales, but it’s been reversed in this case . . .”

He trailed off as the dwarves exchanged puzzled looks.

“I’m afraid we don’t quite have the context for that, Bilbo,” Balin said gently, for he probably had read such tales from the other races at some point. “Most ladies wouldn’t want to admit that they need any form of rescuing--dwarven ladies, I mean.”

“An’ this ain’t a story,” Dwalin informed him bluntly. “The lad needs ta be less reckless. Both o’ them need ta watch it, but carryin’ on with an elf in front of everyone--”

“At least we know what’s happening,” Balin said soothingly. “And the lad is alive and recovering, so there’s that.”

Thorin did not feel particularly soothed when it dawned upon him that his sister-son had been nursing tender feelings towards a certain elf since Mirkwood. And he could not get up to vent his feelings. 

“He should have known better,” he growled. “Never trust an elf.”

“You’re being really silly,” Bilbo commented as he set down the cup of water and fussed at the arrangement of items on the makeshift table next to Thorin’s cot. “They really like each other--what’s wrong with that?”

Thorin exchanged a look with Dwalin while Balin looked at the tips of his boots. Being the only hobbit in the tent, they did not expect him to understand the depths of enmity that lay between dwarrow and elven kind.

His rant was probably made less impressive by him being unable to move from his bed, but Thorin tried anyhow. “I will not have my sister-sons anywhere near the subjects of that--that perfidious prancing--”

“Wow, you sound like Thranduil.”

Thorin almost levitated off the surface of his cot in anger. “I do not sound like that blond thief! First it was the treasure of Erebor, now my heirs?”

“Easy now, we’re all allies now,” Balin reminded Thorin. But he was still honest to his old friend and king. “Well, allies of a sort.”

“And it’s just _one_ of them,” Dwalin growled. 

“Oh no--”

Yet another interruption was provided by Dáin’s sudden entrance. Anyone else might have been thrown out for daring to do the same.

“Oi! It’s about time yer up, cousin mine! Much too many important things to approve of for my liking!” Dáin exclaimed without even waiting to greet Thorin. Or perhaps that was his idea of a greeting. Thorin was glad that Dáin was not going for the headbutt.

“Good battle, cousin.” Basic decency aside, his kinsman had travelled all this way to fight for Erebor. “I grieve for your losses.”

“My fallen lie behind mountain stone, to await the rebuilding of the world.” Dáin intoned one of the standard phrases. “Maker only knows when, but the world out there willna wait. Thorin, claim yer damn kingdom before someone else does.”

“Ah, well, you are the next most likely candidate, Lord Dáin,” Balin said delicately.

“My wife would brain me with an axe. An’ I don’t love yer neighbour ta the west.”

“To be fair, I can’t stand him either,” Thorin said. He was still angry with Thranduil, but the Elvenking had participated in the battle on what was approximately his side. “So he is still here? Waiting to get his share, no doubt.”

“An’ the men of Laketown,” Dwalin growled.

“Bard seems like an honourable man,” Bilbo chipped in.

Thorin sighed and felt his ribs creak. Bilbo did not understand a lot about Men either. The only men he had come across had been the farmers between the Shire and Bree. But one problematic thing at a time . . . “The other clans? Their terms?” 

“Dwalin told ye about them? A season’s wages for every dwarf, plus a bonus for staying all through winter.” Dáin scratched his beard thoughtfully. “And a suitable present for each o’ the four Lords of the Red Mountains. Maybe we should pick some things out ta make it more personal-like now that you’re up . . .”

A part of Thorin honestly wished that he could tell them to drag away as much of it as they could. He was not up to looking at his grandfather’s hoard. Balin looked ready to offer up excuses on his behalf when another dwarf clattered in.

The tent was getting increasingly crowded.

“Oi! What’s this talk about you getting up?” Óin had bustled through the tent flap without knocking on the tent-post and stood with his fists on his hips, obviously not having any of this, whatever _this_ may turn out to be.

“I’m the doctor here an’ I decide who gets discharged an’ when!” He shook a slightly discoloured finger under Dáin’s nose. “He’s not ready to get up--not for another month!”

“Sorry, cousin,” Thorin said, doing his best not to appear relieved. “Doctor’s orders. You’re stuck with dealing with the Red Mountain clans and the others as my proxy.”

Specifically the elves. Thorin would do quite a lot to avoid looking at Thranduil’s smirking countenance right now. He was probably going to punch that smirk right off his face the minute he did not feel like someone had stepped all over him in iron boots. And then there was Kíli . . . Thorin had never realised that a mountain of responsibilities would actually feel like an actual mountain on his back.

“Eh, you took back that mountain, you should be cleaning it up,” Dáin complained half-heartedly. He knew that he was not going to win over the combined efforts of Óin and the rest of the Company. 

“I can ratify anything that needs my seal or signature. You can authorise the payments if the work is satisfactory.” Thorin did not want to go too close to the treasure now. Perhaps after the craft-masters had done a ritual purification of the forges and workshops . . .

“I can read any agreements that need looking at,” Balin offered. “We’ll keep Thorin updated while he rests.”

And that would have been that except for the large raven matriarch that flew through the open tent flap and hailed him as King Under the Mountain.

It was, Thorin would note later, one of the most eventful days of his reign.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Bard let his eldest adjust the hang of his coat for about the tenth time. Sigrid was taking his new position very seriously. She had laundered his best coat--borrowed, of course--and would have got someone to embroider it if she had found a seamstress in time.

“You can’t go around looking like a bargeman anymore, Da!” she said as she brushed invisible lint off his shoulder. “And now you’ve got to be presentable to meet the dwarf lords.”

“It’s not like they don’t know what I look like after a battle,” Bard said, but wisely did not protest too much. Standing at the head of the small Laketown contingent, he was aware of the eyes of his people on his back and just ahead of him, the various dwarf representatives heading for the enlarged meeting tent.

“Sensible girl,” Dáin said in passing. He would be officiating today as Thorin was still recovering. Resplendent in light mail and an embossed breastplate topped with a gold-chased helm, the dwarf looked every inch a warrior king. “Good head on her shoulders. These are your advisors?”

“Some of them,” Bard said honestly. The Master had been much traumatised by his ordeal and Bard did not actually want him at his first meeting with the court of Thorin Oakenshield. He might be being superstitious, but Bard felt that the presence of the corrupt old sot was would hardly be auspicious for a new beginning. 

The former Master of Laketown was languishing under Farrah’s watchful eye and complaining of his hurts to anyone that would listen. Farrah would no doubt tip him out of bed when she tired of his griping.

“It’s a start.” Dáin marched onwards purposefully and when Bard saw him next, he was seated as Thorin’s proxy at the head of a massive oak table comprised of representatives of the Company and the eastern clans.

They were announced by a brass-voiced herald in neutral colours and Bard was ushered forwards as King of Dale. That had been the result of a hard-won battle between Bard and most of the others. Everyone else had agreed with what Dáin had told him--he had to go as a king of men.

There was a round of formal introductions and Bard finally knew the names of the warlords from the east. Fierce Suthria of the Blacklocks, commander of the Ironjaws from the south, canny Nyr from the easternmost settlements, supercilious Lofar Broadaxe of the north reaches and the deceptively jovial-looking Buri of Lorn, Dáin’s ally from the past. All unknown quantities, if you discounted Lofar’s open distrust of humans.

At least Lofar was being honest. Bard did not think that he could spot true deceit in people if they were hiding it, much less another species. He might need the Master for that and it galled him.

“Thank you for agreeing to meet at such short notice. I hear that King Thorin is recovering and so I hope you can return this to him on my behalf.”

 _This_ caused every dwarf to lean forward involuntarily when Bard took the Arkenstone out of a velvet bag--goodness only knew where Sigrid had dug that out from--and set it onto the table. There was a reverent hush as Balin picked up the great gem and transferred it into a solid mahagony case.

“Ye heard right,” Dáin said loudly to break the silence. “Now let’s not mess around with small talk--it doesn’t suit any o’ us. There’s a matter o’ tha’ reward for dragon-slaying ta see to.”

“Ah, yes, the matter at hand . . . Let it not be said that the dwarves of Erebor are no better than a marauding dragon." Balin laid a large flat wooden box on the table and lifted the lid carefully. "This belonged to Girion of Dale--we cleaned it up, just in case. A few rounds of ice-melt from the river, as much sun as there was to be had, a blessing by the gem-carvers--we can't help where it's been--"

"Under that damn dragon for the best part of a century," Gloin muttered. "The Wyrm must've looted Dale after . . . well, _you know_."

Bard felt his eyes bulging out of their sockets at the sheer opulence of the jewelled strand that had been revealed before him. Perfectly matched emeralds--each the size of a hen's egg--set in gleaming gold and interspaced with smaller gems that were probably diamonds. Nothing in the Laketown treasury and the Master’s house had ever been as fine.

"That's enough to feed my people through the winter and then some!" he exclaimed.

Balin cleared his throat and the dwarves looked faintly embarrassed while Dáin adopted a carefully neutral stare. "We were hoping you would keep it as an heirloom--something for your children perhaps. This is just a token of good will--there are items in the mountain that have ownership marks of the men of Dale on them. We fully in tend to give them back once we sort it all out, but our King and Lord Dáin have agreed to advance you and your people a sum of gold. A reward for slaying the dragon and to get your undertaking started."

“Meaning we’ll bankroll ye if y’be rebuilding yon city,” Dáin said bluntly. “Can’t wear pretty jewels with no roof o’er yer heads.”

"Please send your King my thanks," Bard managed to say without stumbling over his own tongue. He had to get used to having money and fast. Balin handed the box over to Sigrid, who gracefully managed not to let her shock at carrying more wealth than she had ever seen in her life overwhelm her.

“Of course,” Balin said, a suspicious twinkle in his eye that implied that his message would be delivered and an edited reply would be forthcoming. Thorin Oakenshield had not been the most diplomatic dwarf the last time Bard had met him.

Word must have got out faster than his thoughts were racing for he was accosted by dwarves right outside Dáin’s meeting tent. All of them were loud and most of them were belligerent as they gathered around him, speaking quickly in accented Westron. 

"You the king of Men? You'll be needing boatbuilders--"

"Stone-masons--"

"Blacksmiths--the Stiffbeards are the best of blacksmiths of the Red Mountains!"

"Lies! Don't listen to him! The Blacklocks are superior in every way!"

"Good masters! Tomorrow! Come to Dale tomorrow morning and there will be plenty to do! Contracts will be offered at a fair rate!" Bard managed to get himself heard over the din of fractious dwarves around him. And he had to get back to Gil and Farrah so that they could have some warning before the next day.

Through the crowd, he could see Dáin’s shiny helm bobbing along. There might have been a sharp jerk of his head or some kind of signal--Bard could not be certain, but he used his height to his advantage and managed to walk away quickly with his followers trailing after. 

“I wish all future dealings were so brief,” Bard huffed after he had got away from the aggressive craftmasters. Dáin was strolling along just beyond the rows of tents and his warriors were managing armed nonchalance from just a little way off.

"Formalities are for formal occasions," Dáin told him as they fell in step. "Some kings don't bother with them when there're things to be done--saves time. Hire scribes to do the translations--contracts were usually done in both languages back in the time before Smaug."

“You really need to stop giving me free advice, Lord Dáin,” Bard said with something that was almost a smile. “Your people will complain of undue favouritism.”

“Eh, put a three hundred percent mark-up on any wine that that blond leaf-eater orders in the future an’ I’ll call it even,” Dáin said casually.

“You don’t like the Elvenking,” Bard observed, then cursed himself silently for stating the obvious.

“Bad blood an’ too much history--that one is older than dirt an’ slyer than most.” Dáin frowned and Bard realised that the dwarf was looking beyond him. There was a trio of elves approaching them--official-looking elves, all turned out nicely and bearing the Elvenking’s banner.

“A message?” Bard wondered.

But the elves were not looking for Dáin. They were making for the royal tent. Dáin swore in dwarvish under his breath.

“Ye don’t happen ta know what’s going on, d’ye?” Dáin asked as he quickened his steps. The elven delegation had attracted attention and others began moving in the same direction.

Bard could only shake his head and follow suit. Their followers had to race after them and he could swear that Sigrid was muttering something about this being hardly dignified while one of Dáin’s soldiers agreed as they hurried along.

But there was a sense of urgency that infected everyone present. They hurried on.

And reached the King’s tent just in time to hear Thranduil’s messenger deliver the Elvenking’s proposal to Thorin Oakenshield. It was courtly and formal, but lacked the flourishes and length that Elven proclaimations were known for. It was probably trimmed down to get the message through before anyone could interrupt. 

There was a moment of silence as everyone processed what they had just witnessed. Then the shouting started. The elves remained impassive, though they managed to project an air of _we are just the messengers_ above the din.

“Told ye so,” Dáin said grimly as the babble of voices started to bellow in dwarvish. “Old as dirt an’ slyer than most.”

Looking at the dwarves, humans and elves around him, Bard realised that Thranduil had been very clever indeed. With so many representatives from the clans witnessing that proclaimation, Thorin Oakenshield would have to give an answer as King Under the Mountain.

“I take it that that was not a friendly proposal from King Thranduil to solidify relations with his neighbours?” Bard murmured as Balin managed to make himself heard over the noise and told the messengers that the King would send a reply after three days.

“Nah, Thranduil knows that Thorin’ll bite his own foot off ‘fore lettin’ his sister-son wed an elf--that’d be the one that saved his life, right?” Dáin looked even more resigned as Bard nodded in affirmation. “That complicates things now . . .”

“So what happens now?” 

“Wait an’ watch the show--at least ye won’t be bored while rebuildin’ Dale,” Dáin said before forcing his way through the gathered dwarves and into the King’s tent.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~


End file.
